“They look upon fraud as a greater crime than theft, and therefore seldom fail to punish it with death,” Jonathan Swift famously wrote of the fictional island of Lilliput in Gulliver's Travels. Appearing as an epigraph of Edward Balleisen's Fraud: An American History from Barnum to Madoff, it invites comparison of Lilliput with the United States, not least because it is paired with a 2007 quotation from the former Federal Reserve Chairman Alan Greenspan, who was rather more philosophical about fraud. As the world teetered on the edge of economic crisis, he wrote it off as a regrettable but inevitable part of “the way human nature functions,” suggesting that “what successful economies do is keep it to a minimum.” Looking backward, Balleisen finds greater ambivalence in the historical record, as a matter of both human psychology and American law. From the nation's founding, he observes, “the country's lionization of entrepreneurial freedom has given aid and comfort to the perpetrators of duplicitous schemes.” But this is not to say that they have been allowed to act with impunity. To the contrary, their creative deceptions have inspired a wide array of anti-fraud initiatives, operating “at the leading edge of regulatory innovation.” In chronicling these conflicting and conflicted pursuits of profit and justice over the course of two centuries of American history, Balleisen brilliantly elucidates an enduring dilemma of governance: how to promote ingenuity without undermining “‘the capital of confidence upon which all progress depends.’”

In the fall of 1989, the queer community became embroiled in a fierce debate over whether to press for marriage rights. Two attorneys from Lambda Legal, a leading gay and lesbian rights organization, set out the competing considerations in the pages of Out/Look, a community magazine. Tom Stoddard, the then-executive director, argued that the movement should prioritize marriage rights because that strategy provided the surest path to equality. Paula Ettelbrick, Lambda's Legal Director, disagreed. She conceded that marriage provided “the ultimate form of acceptance” and “an insider status of the most powerful kind.” That fact, however, was the problem. Gays and lesbians, she argued, should not be focused on assimilating to the mainstream, but rather should pursue justice for those who were different.

While the reach of Parliament was hotly contested in eighteenth-century America, there was one Act in particular that proved especially complicated for geographer Lewis Evans and his daughter, Amelia Evans Barry. Believing that English copyright law did not extend to Philadelphia in the 1750s, Lewis Evans drew on a variety of tools and circumstances to, in essence, craft his own interpretation of what benefits of copyright he and his family could obtain. Rather than formal copyright disputes involving legal documentation, this particular episode focused on other aspects of A General Map of the Middle British Colonies, In America. Inheriting the copyright to A General Map from her father, Amelia Evans Barry in turn sought to enforce and recreate a claim to literary labor over subsequent decades. The result was a unique story of copyright’s origins in America that also underscored the challenge of enforcing structures of power and perceptions of authority, particularly over geographic media, in the British empire. The boundaries of jurisdiction and sovereignty, the same ones depicted in A General Map, were that much more difficult to enforce when it came to intellectual property.

In 2021, Anna Lvovsky published Vice Patrol: Cops, Courts, and the Struggle over Urban Gay Life Before Stonewall with the University of Chicago Press. The book studies gay communities’ confrontations with criminal law in the mid-twentieth-century United States. Lvovsky, a professor of law and affiliate professor of history at Harvard University, pays particularly close attention to law enforcement practices that aimed to police homosexuality, as well as “the gay world's confrontations with the law.” What results is a complex story of regulation and contestation that spans several decades, which is poised to not only influence how historians understand the policing of sexual difference, but also push forward understandings of the United States war on crime and the inter-related rise of the carceral state.

On June 24, 2015, a huge swarm of jellyfish clogged the cooling system of an Israeli coal-fueled power plants located on the Mediterranean shoreline, almost forcing a shutdown. Images from the event displayed tons of pale blue, translucent jellies, lumped together in a container and spread over the factory floor after being removed from the cooling system filter. The spectacular incident prompted speculation that the jellyfish were foreign agents sent from Egypt to sabotage Israeli security. It may seem laughable, but this is not the first time that non-humans have figured as agents and national security threats in geopolitical dramas in the Middle East. In 2010, following repeated shark attacks on tourists in one of Egypt's Red Sea resorts, Sharm El-Sheikh, the governor of South Sinai told the media he could not rule out the possibility of the attacking shark being remotely controlled by the Israeli intelligence agency Mossad. In this context, foreign, underwater jellyfish armies are nothing out of the ordinary.

Cajetan Iheka’s African Ecomedia: Network Forms, Planetary Politics (2021) and his edited collection, Teaching Postcolonial Environmental Literature and Media (2022), importantly privilege—indeed celebrate—non-Western epistemologies at the very forefront of ecocriticism. In the former book, Africa is not “lagging” behind but is modeling sustainability for the future. This is a resourceful continent even in the face of “nonrenewable infrastructures dotting the continent’s environment” (11). Iheka offers a meticulous historical contextualization of Africa’s present economic demise while beautifully answering the question, “Why can’t we be seen?” (African Ecomedia 105). Kisilu Musya, a famer in Julia Dahr’s climate change film Thank You For the Rain (2017), makes this query, which cannot be ignored in a book rich in both its theoretical frameworks and interventions in fields such as African and media studies as well as the energy and environmental humanities. Teaching Postcolonial Environmental Literature and Media advances Iheka’s agenda to make the invisible visible. Ultimately, the various ecomedia employed in Iheka’s works suggest an Anthropocene implicated in global degradation. As users of smartphones and paper, we are the problem as well as the solution to more ethical, postcolonial ecologies.

This article responds to ‘An agenda for women's history in Ireland, 1500–1900’ by highlighting the explanatory potential of the Presbyterian archive in extending and reshaping our understanding of women, gender and the family in Ireland. Discussed here as the ‘Presbyterian archive’, the records of the Presbyterian church offer a tantalising insight into the intimate worlds of women and men in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Ireland. Although Presbyterians were a minority religious community in Ireland, their records provide much more than a marginalised picture. Instead, the Presbyterian archive casts fresh light on the wider Irish evidence, enriching our knowledge of the everyday lives of women and men in Ireland. The article begins by introducing the Presbyterian archive and the community responsible for its creation. Next, it considers how the Presbyterian archive both meets and advances the aims of the ‘Agenda’ and reveals what it can tell us about the lives of women and men as gendered subjects. Overall, the article underlines the importance of the Presbyterian archive as a source for Irish historians because it underscores why all history is gender history.